Hunting Ground
by Omnia Mutantur
Summary: This is a sequel to my first Darkman fic, 'New Beginnings'. NEWLY UPDATED! Chapter 3 is here and Chapter 4 is in progress.
1. Before the Storm

**Darkman:Hunting Ground**

**1. Before the Storm**

Night time. The time of dark corners, unseen back alleys, and silent predators. In the city, few venture out at this time. But two men have done so this night. Here, in the alleys and side streets, few are safe. But this night, these two men will come to no harm. No one would dare. It is said that there is honour among thieves and scoundrels. This is not true. But there is fear. And fear overpowers all other feelings, all wishes and desires, all intentions and needs. Fear is a useful commodity to those who can wield it. Both of these men can do that. It is their living, although their careers are quite different. At other times, these two men might find each other on opposing sides. Tonight they are united in a common cause. There can only be one motivation for such an alliance, although neither would admit it; perhaps they do not even realise.

They are afraid.

They meet here, in the shadows, away from the glare of the streetlights and the glow of the moon, so that they might not be seen. Those who serve them must not know of their new, and temporary, partnership. 

Let us observe them.

Both are tall, both wear dark, heavy coats, collars pulled up. Their faces are barely visible in the darkened alley. One is slim and wiry, the other broad and imposing. Both radiate a sense of purpose and of power. Their voices have a tone of finality about them - their discussion is nearing an end.

The slim one speaks.

"The arrangement is acceptable. But know this - if you fail to keep your side of it, if any of your men get in the way of my associates, they will have no qualms about dispatching them. We both want this done, but it will be done my way."

"Agreed," replies the tall one. "But now you listen: don't push me. If you and your...associates...overstep the limits we have agreed on, I will personally see to it that you regret the day you crossed me for the rest of your miserable life - however long that may or may not be."

"And after our task is complete?"

"This...co-operation...will be dissolved. And then I suggest that you go back to whichever rock you were hiding under, and don't show your face where I can see it."

There is a pause. The slim one considers something.

"I had hoped to reach a more long-term agreement, a mutually beneficial one of the sort currently enjoyed by others within this city."

The other man responds immediately, as though expecting the question. 

"If you succeed in this task, we will discuss it further." His voice now takes on a hard edge. "But do not presume upon anything. I'm not in the mood to give you any leeway right now. So watch it. And woe betide you if you fail."

The slim man inclines his head in acknowledgement.

"My resources are considerable, as you know to your cost. We will not fail. The Darkman will die."


	2. Into The Night

**2. Into The Night**

Some fear the night. They avoid it, shun it, stay in the light of the day, where all is visible and there are no dark, hidden corners and faces. Others embrace the night, and are embraced by it. These people feel no fear in the dark, they use it as a cloak, a shroud, a shelter from everything. They do not walk through the world at night, they walk past it. You can pass these people on the nighttime streets and not even know it. You may look straight at them and yet not see them; and, likewise, do not presume that they see you.

One such man walks the night in this fashion. He is walking it now. His name was once Peyton Westlake. He now goes by the name 'Darkman'. He lives in shadow, and hides in plain view. He is everywhere and nowhere, everyone and no one. He is known of many, but few know who he is. He is a man of contradictions, never stable. After being brutally beaten and burned, he was subjected to an experimental treatment for burns victims - he can feel no pain, but as a result is emotionally unstable, given to mood swings and outbursts of violent intensity, further fuelled by the increased levels of adrenaline that grant him (or curse him with) strength beyond that of ordinary men. But he has fears too. He fears that he will remain a monster (for that is how he sees himself) forever. He fears that he will never be able to make a life with the woman he loves, and he also fears for her safety - he is a scientist, and he knows that he is dangerous.

But he does not fear the night. Perhaps he should. And perhaps he soon will.

Todd Murphy, on the other hand, does fear the night. Unfortunately, he has little choice but to walk it. The night patrol list never seems long enough. His name keeps coming back around again. Last time he was on night patrol, he saw the Darkman for the first time, and look what happened then. He discovered that his police chief, Claude Bellisarius, controls most of the city's organised crime, accepting bribes to allow certain...private enterprises to conduct their operations, unhindered by such slight inconveniences as the strong arm of the law.

This also scares Todd Murphy. But what scares Todd Murphy even more is the prospect of meeting the Darkman again in one of these back streets. _An uneasy ally, the Darkman_, thinks Murphy, _who cares not for justice, but revenge_. And nothing will stand in the way of that desire for revenge, he knows. Murphy does not require revenge, of course. He wants to see Bellisarius pay for his crimes. The man must be punished for his wrongdoing. That isn't revenge. That's justice.

What Murphy doesn't want, is to meet the Darkman. But we don't always get what we want. And sometimes, that turns out to be a good thing. Eventually.

There is another who walks abroad on this particular night who does not fear it, but not one who walks with the subtlety and calm of those like the Darkman. This individual has need for neither. He simply stalks the back-alleys and by-ways, fulfilling his task. Smackwater Jack is a hitman. His _modus operandi_ reflects his night-walking - crude, but effective. He does not go by his real name, that would be foolish, so his pseudonym, as with so many such pseudonyms, describes him in some way. He is named for a song. He cannot sing, but he does carry a shotgun. One of many from his collection, customised and personalised.

The model he carries now, concealed under his heavy coat, and attached to it by means of a holster that he himself invented, with adjustable straps and a quick-release clasp, is one of his favourites. It is surprisingly compact. Triple-barrelled, sawn at the ends, maximised for a closed-cluster hit, and with clumps of three shells lined up along the top of the extended grip on metal tracks. He can reload this gun in 1.25 seconds. It is designed for a specific purpose, a quick hit. That is what he wants tonight. He knows that his target is dangerous, he will not get more than one chance to dispatch him. Jack has estimated that, with luck, he will have the chance to fire off two rounds. That, he guesses, will take about 3 seconds. Six shells will be enough, he knows, to obliterate his target's chest. Death will be guaranteed.

Jack smiles to himself, and walks faster.

The Darkman is not happy. It's been a lousy week. Not even backing Bellisarius into a corner over the prostitution racket has cheered him up. He doesn't want to hide behind the shelter of blackmail, he wants revenge. But this, he supposes will do for now. He'd be furious if he wasn't so tired. Even with increased levels of adrenaline, three or four days and nights with no sleep will push a man to exhaustion. And he has still made no breakthrough with his work. Not that he expected to, of course, not so soon, but he had hoped to get further than this. Not even his newfound knowledge that he can consciously improve and sharpen his eyesight has helped him. He can see the cells of the artificial skin he creates more clearly, but it hasn't led him to any new knowledge, no way of extending the skin's 99 minutes of life except by darkness. 

And he hasn't seen Julie again. He knows that he shouldn't because he knows, intellectually, that there is no hope for their relationship under these circumstances, and being with her again would only make his longing worse, and the distance between them greater. But he wants to see her so much, cannot bear this being away from her. It is tearing him apart, more than any explosion ever could.

He can feel himself getting worked up, feels the grief well up inside him, so he tries to extend his senses to calm his overwrought emotions. He stands still, a dark figure in a dark night down a dark alley, and listens, and looks. He hears the scraping of an alley rat, foraging for scraps to feed on. As he turns his head and peers harder into the gloom, he sees it scrabbling around, desperate to find something hidden in the night that it did not have before. The Darkman watches, fascinated, as another rat approaches it from behind and attacks, ready to steal what has been uncovered by its kinsman, not caring that its unfortunate victim has found nothing.

As blood begins to flow in a futile, pointless struggle, the Darkman turns away. He does not like mirrors, and the animal kingdom can often seem as such.

He is about to withdraw into himself once more and head back to what he must now call home, when he hears something from the next alley that does not sound like an animal, at least not of the smaller variety. He moves quickly to the wall, flattening himself just around the corner from the Noise. He concentrates harder, notices the shadows deepen as his hearing is given priority over his eyesight. The scientific part of his mind files this new experience away for later consideration. The rest of him tenses; few walk these alleys, and fewer are friendly.

Whoever is approaching is doing so slowly, carefully, deliberately, silent to an ordinary ear. By the length of the stride, the Darkman estimates that the Walker is a few inches short of being six feet tall. He listens harder, and hears another sound, besides those of footsteps. It is barely audible, a muffled thump, he hears it between each step, a regular rhythm. Something swinging at the Walker's side? Muffled...probably by a coat, perhaps under the coat. Not at the Walker's side, though - the sound would be intermittent, not striking the body on every step, not when the Walker walks so stealthily. The Whatever-it-is must be in front of the Walker, attached to the inside of Its coat. Not long, but quite heavy. A sawn-off shotgun?

A foot appears from around the corner. The Walker has arrived. The next foot is accompanied by a trenchcoat and a head, which turns to look down the alley and whose eyes barely have time to register the large, black-clad man in front of them. The Darkman lashes out.

Smackwater Jack was not happy. He didn't like it when time slowed to a crawl, as it always seems to do when one is falling. _This must be the Darkman_, he thinks as he falls back under the force of the sudden attack. As he falls, he reaches inside his coat for his gun, moving as if through treacle. _How did he know?_ he asks himself, as the clasps pop open and he points his shotgun outward. For the first time, Jack fears his prey. Perhaps this is why, as he fires his gun, a fraction of a moment before he feels the impact of the ground, his aim is off. The Darkman stumbles as the shells tear through his thigh, but continues his advance.

Time returns to its normal state, Jack rolls to the right, rises to one knee against the side of the alley away from the corner he turned around, breaks, reloads and snaps the gun barrel back into place in one fluid motion. He brings his gun up once more, sees the Darkman and fires. This takes less than three seconds. Jack almost forgets to reload his gun when he sees the Darkman still coming, untouched by the second round. The gun is still pointing down when the Darkman reaches him and rewards his hesitation with a two-handed clubbing. _So fast_, Jack thinks as he races down that black tunnel to unconsciousness.

He reaches oblivion before his head hits the ground, and does not see the Darkman collapse against the wall, leaving blood on the grimy brick, clutching his left side. _Not fast enough_, thinks Darkman as the alley dissolves around him. 

A darkness as deep as the night in which he seeks shelter descends upon him.


	3. Dawn Breaks

**3. Dawn Breaks**

It was when he heard the gunshots that Todd Murphy wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere in the whole world, really. He wasn't picky. Just not here, and not definitely not now. He ran toward what he thought was roughly the direction of the noise, a feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. Murphy sincerely hoped this was nothing to do with Darkman. He knew that it was more likely than not, though even Dr Campion at the hospital hadn't seen him since that time five weeks ago. The man freaked him out. There was an intensity to him that Murphy found disturbing. And Murphy really didn't like the dark. But still he ran on, toward his duty.

It took him over forty minutes to find the place. The back alleys of the city are a maze. It is not unknown for wayward travellers to fall foul of the denizens here, where perpetual twilight reigns during the day, and a deep darkness falls at night. Few of these denizens are foolish enough to attack an armed, nervous police officer chasing a gunshot of course, but Murphy was not to know this. Nor would this knowledge have made any difference to his state of mind. Fear will do that to a man.

Murphy arrived on the scene breathless, gun in hand. There was nobody to shoot at, only a figure, prostrate on the ground. Murphy approached cautiously. As he got closer, he saw the man's clothes. He knew it was a man, for he knew only one who dressed in this fashion, in an old gentleman's dress coat. He saw the hat nearby. Only the Darkman dressed this way. He gripped his gun tighter, and moved even closer. It was then that he saw the blood.

Smackwater Jack's head hurt a lot. He had been lucky he thought, as he lapsed in and out of consciousness. The Darkman had been thrown off his stride by the gunshots, hadn't been able to strike properly. Jack could barely move as it was. He'd only managed to crawl around the corner a couple of minutes before the police officer had arrived, and hadn't made it far enough into the shadows of the next alley to avoid a thorough search. One quick look at the officer himself, however, told Jack that a thorough search was not something to worry about. The man was terrified, too terrified to venture further than he had to into the darkness. 

Jack smiled with relief. Now his only concern was to get medical attention before something bad happened to him out in the alleyway. He was known here, and was confident that his reputation would provide him safety for a short time, but the longer he was here, injured, immobile, the more dangerous his situation became. People were scared of Jack, and he knew that Fear was Power and that Power has always been Law. 

But now it was time to move. He gripped his shotgun more tightly.

*****

Hospitals were depressing. Then again, thought Dr Sally Campion, everywhere was depressing at this time in the morning. She ran a hand through her hair, got up from her desk and headed for the bathroom. She had to wash her face. It had been an awful night. At least she could go home to bed in a couple of hours. No more night shifts for a week. This knowledge might have cheered her up a little if she hadn't seen a police officer running down the corridor toward her. She sighed. It had to be...

"Sergeant Murphy. What can I do for you? Have you seen our friend recently?"

"He's here," the man panted. "He's injured."

This stopped Campion in her tracks. The sergeant had been in every couple of days asking questions ever since the Darkman incident. She kept telling him that Peyton Westlake (for that is his name, she repeatedly reminded the policeman) was a severely unbalanced individual who would probably never show his disfigured face again. 

Murphy was obviously under the delusion that Westlake cared for justice. A mistaken impression, Campion knew, patently mistaken. She had thought him a scientist, though. She thought he would contact her in that capacity. She had been wrong again. Another dead end in her dying career. Westlake and his synthetic skin had been her last chance. And now, weeks later, he was here?

"What happened?"

"I was on night patrol, I found him in an alleyway, I heard a gunshot, he's... he's been shot, and I don't know who did it, I didn't look much further, it doesn't pay to be too curious round there, if you know what I'm saying, I just thought..." Murphy was slowly turning an unhealthy shade of blue in his attempt to detail the situation in less than sixty seconds.

"Sergeant, you can stop to take a breath if you like."

"Yes, but..."

She tried to compose herself. "Don't worry sergeant, I'm on my way now. Where did they put him?"

"He's in a secure ward, Sally, restrained and under guard. We don't want your monsters running around this hospital." _He said that without moving his lips_, she thought, until it occurred to her that Murphy probably hadn't learned how to throw his voice, and that the response had actually come from behind her. It was too early in the morning for this rubbish. She turned.

"Dr Simons. Good morning. We weren't expecting you for another hour or so." She tried to keep the disdain from her voice. "Is 'monsters' a medical term now?"

"Yes, I came in early," he replied, a raised eyebrow his only acknowledgement of her jibe. I think somebody was asking for you down in the secure ward. After all, this thing is one of your, er... patients, isn't it?"

"Yes." She brushed past Simons and headed down the corridor. "And his name is Peyton Westlake!" she shouted at him. So much for going home. She was going to be here for some time longer.

Pain was not an issue for Peyton Westlake. He felt none. He could feel broken bones, he could feel burned flesh, he could feel open wounds, he felt all of this in detail in his conscious moments, but he felt no pain. It was physically impossible for him to feel pain. So he had to concentrate very hard on feeling something else, and it wasn't easy when he was drifting in and out of consciousness. If he didn't, he knew that he could break these bands holding him to the bed, and then he'd end up breaking somebody's head, and that wouldn't go down well with hospital security. 

He was finding it difficult to stay conscious and focussed. He'd lost too much blood. _[lost? no! taken, stolen, shot - shot - Yakitito!] _and he wanted revenge _[_No! I must remain in control, concentrate!_]_ and he could escape and... 

Stars exploded behind his eyes and all he felt was rage. Then he heard somebody shout his name, a woman _[Julie?]_, and he sank into the bed once more, the fire behind his eyes quenched by the tears that now welled up. Through the haze of semi-consciousness, he saw a woman's face _["Julie!"] _look over him. He wanted to hide himself away from her. She couldn't see him, he couldn't allow it; he felt this more strongly and more acutely than ever before. And the sorrow was unbearable.

Before he fell into darkness once again, he considered that he was not completely without pain.****

Murphy was worried. He was worried that someone would find out that the Darkman was in the hospital. Campion had just shouted his real name loud enough for everybody to hear. He would have to mention that to her sometime. He was the one who had insisted on a secure ward, allowing only Campion access to him. He had also removed the man's coat and hat (he had not been wearing his bandages) before the ambulance team had arrived. The alleyway had actually had a name, though he was surprised that they were willing to venture down the back streets in the dark. _That's a sense of duty alright_, he thought.

Murphy knew all about duty. It was linked to power He watched Campion attend the Darkman's wounds, watched her doing her duty. He himself, well, he'd been doing his duty all night, and now he was here fulfilling it again. They both had power, of one sort or another, and using one's power properly, well that was duty, wasn't it? But the Darkman himself? He was lying there, shot after a back-street brawl. He was shirking his duty. But Murphy had no power over the Darkman. He couldn't force him to do anything. He would have to accept his duty on his own terms. Murphy feared that Peyton Westlake would not live long enough to do that. Murphy suspected that, right now, Peyton Westlake would not mind that at all. And then what hope would there be?

What was it he'd said? It sounded like a name, 'Julie'. Sally Campion filed it away for future information. After all, she was building up a picture of this man. She could finally add something else to his file. That was reassuring for her, as she extracted the rifle rounds from his body, and cleaned the wounds. She liked order. Which was ironic, because she had created disorder in the mind of Peyton Westlake. Only willpower could keep Westlake sane. He was certainly capable of it. It was a question of whether or not he actually wanted to control his urges, his rampant emotions - his anger.

It seemed to Campion that Westlake wanted to cultivate his anger rather than control it. He would allow it to grow and increase until it consumed his enemies. He would find it difficult, she knew. From there, his anger would keep on growing and he would not be able to stop it. Then it would consume him also. She sighed as she dressed the wounds and stepped back to look at the man lying on the bed, at his ravaged face. Unblemished skin remained only around his eyes and upper left cheek. The rest of his face was horribly scarred. His lips were had all but been burnt off, and his teeth were all visible. And he would destroy himself, she knew. Despite all his brilliance and genius, he would destroy himself. And he didn't even realise it.

"Will I live?" 

The question took her by surprise. She hadn't expected him to be awake. She collected herself. "In the short term, yes. The wounds aren't infected, and given your powers of recovery, you should be mended in a week."

"Excellent. If you would be so kind as to undo these restraints, I'll be leaving now."

"However," continued Campion, giving no sign that she had heard him, "in the long term I'd say somebody's going to shoot you again, and if they have any sense they'll shoot you in the head and then there'll be nothing I can do for you."

"Doctor, please don't lecture me. I would remind you that I am a scientist, and perfectly capable of making rational decisions."

"No," she said, deciding to push her luck, "you are a freak, you are dangerous, and you are staying here!"

Westlake's face changed in an instant. His brows shot down, his mouth curled into a terrifying snarl his eyes narrowed, and a flame was lit behind them. The transformation was frightening in its alarming suddenness. Campion braced herself to run for it. She had gone too far. 

Then his face relaxed again, and he let out one of his rasping chuckles. "You will not bait me that easily, Dr Campion. Now let me out of here. I have work to do."

She hadn't expected him to do that. Perhaps his control had improved more than she gave him credit for. "Your work. The synthetic skin."

"Yes."

"You haven't been back here since I helped you last. You haven't told me anything about your progress."

"Because there has been no progress."

It was now that she began to reconsider her last assessment. She looked into his eyes. There was anger there. A great, fiery anger that was barely concealed below the surface. She looked more closely at him. He was tense, very tense, and it belied the calm expression on his face. Well, except for the eyes. _Perhaps his control isn't so good after all. He's just learning to hide it. From himself as well, I think._

"Fine. So you're just going to leave now, then? Go back to your warehouse and hide?"

"Yes. I am. Just as soon as you release me." Westlake's impatience was growing, and it showed in his voice.

"Fine." She over to him, not breaking eye contact, hoping that she could last out. It wasn't easy to stare defiantly into those eyes. They were truly terrible. Whatever the expression on his face, she could look straight into his mind through those eyes. For all his efforts, he was unguarded. He had been stripped of more than his ability to feel pain. All vestiges of pretence were gone, his civilised mask had been burnt away, and all could see what was underneath it. No wonder he hid behind bandages, and covered himself with darkness. He was undefended and unprotected against the world. She felt sorry for him. But he still scared her. 

So she was surprised when he looked away from her. She unfastened the restraints and stepped back, but not too far. She wasn't going to cower in his presence not now she had the upper hand.

"Thank you, Doctor." He stood, but still did not meet her gaze. "Now, could you please ask the good sergeant Murphy to bring me my hat and coat? I would also be grateful if you could find me some bandages for my face." He looked up suddenly, at the door. "Ah, sergeant Murphy. Do come in."

Campion looked at the door in shock as it opened, and Murphy entered cautiously. He looked like a rabbit skewered by the headlight beams of an eighteen-wheeler. "Well come on man! What are you waiting for?" cried Westlake, sounding for all the world like a deranged Sherlock Holmes. Murphy scurried in, and handed Westlake his clothes and a roll of bandage, with an expression close to awe on his face. It was almost comical.

Sally shook herself and took control once more. "Mr Westlake is leaving now, sergeant. I believe you also have duties to return to?" She looked quickly over at Westlake, and saw his expression darken when she called him by his real name. The cloud past almost as soon as it arrived, however, and when he saw her looking at him he averted his gaze once more. He wrapped the bandage around his head, started to put on his coat, and then decided better of it. Coat and hat in hand, he headed for the door. 

The doctor allowed him to put his hand to the door before saying, "Someone tried to kill you today." Westlake stopped, frozen. "Who was it?" 

He turned his head toward her and made eye contact again. His eyes were all she could see of his face through the bandages. There was a hard edge to the anger in them now, an edge that hadn't been there earlier. He seemed more confident. Something had changed in the last minute. Whatever it was, she was no longer in charge here.

"He was an assassin. A hired killer. And he won't be the last." His growling voice was harder now as well, more determined it seemed. Moments ago he had been almost vulnerable. What had changed? He opened the door. "There's a storm coming," he said.

Then the Darkman was gone.


End file.
